


Chrysalis; (n); A Transitional State

by elegantwings



Series: things will get calmer, follow me [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blowjobs, Ciri is a matchmaker, Coping with near death experiences, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fix-It of Sorts, Gags, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Friendship, M/M, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Sort Of, brief but graphic description of injury, more for silence than for kink but its a bit kinky I won't lie, this series is non-linear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:40:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23147887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elegantwings/pseuds/elegantwings
Summary: Jaskier doesn’t know how to test the limits of his sudden hardiness, but it doesn’t really matter because he finds Yennefer across from him one night all the same. Geralt is away again, hunting whatever, and although Jaskier isn’t performing, he’s a far cry from the type of maudlin he’d been the last time he saw her.She fills his glass immediately, with something amber, stronger than the wine she’d produced before. She bids him to drink it, and he’s mid-sip when she says, “I may have made a mistake.”He freezes, looking at her over the top of his mug. He lowers it carefully. “Is this poison?” he asks pleasantly.“What? No, not that,” she rolls her eyes. “The last time we spoke. I couldn’t bear the thought of Geralt dragging your half-dead corpse to me again, so I did a little spell, something to keep you out of danger.”“Oh.” Jaskier thinks about it. “How’s that a mistake?”Yennefer twists her face in regret. “You’re a bit immortal now, sort of.”Or,Jaskier learns that friendship with Yennefer is both a great and terrible thing, and that his life would be so much easier if he and Geralt just talked for once, like adults.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: things will get calmer, follow me [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1652686
Comments: 30
Kudos: 808





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [neonpinkdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonpinkdragon/gifts).



> I jokingly said I might accidentally write 10k of this series in 2 weeks and well, it's not 10k, but all the same, here we are. Jaskier's POV this time, and he's largely dealing with the fallout of nearly dying in Bottled Affections and then finding out he's functionally immortal now. I also swore I'd never write a mountain fix-it fic, but that's kind of what this became as well. Because of course it did. 
> 
> For what it's worth, I listened to Live & Let Ghosts and Everything Under the Sun by Jukebox the Ghost while writing, and too many of their songs remind me of Jaskier. I've also been informed that the theme of end of this fic is also Mess is Mine by Vance Joy
> 
> We are a pro-Yennefer household here, Fight Me. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are, of course, welcomed and will result in my endless affection and joy.

Most nights, Jaskier performs in the common area of whatever inn he’s picked (Geralt’s picked) for the evening, and he’s practically made it an art form to turn his unsuspecting audience into cheerful fans in no time. Then he can enjoy their coin, and by the end of the night he’ll be pleasantly drunk, maybe washing monster guts out of Geralt’s hair, maybe alone and scribbling in his notebook. Sinking pleasantly into fresh sheets, and if he’s not alone, starfishing himself half-across the hard planes of Geralt’s body and letting his slow pulse lull him into sleep. 

Most nights, Jaskier is not blending himself into a corner booth, getting piss-drunk on a cheap red. Tonight, though, he’s decided he deserves a night for strictly wallowing, now that the reality of his near-death experience has truly sunk in. No one is around to watch him give in to self-pity, which is a definite plus. Geralt’s been gone a day and a half chasing alps or bruxae or fuck, maybe mutant chipmunks, Jaskier doesn’t know. He only knows that Geralt deemed it too dangerous for the likes of fragile humans, and he’ll be back when he’s done. Probably.

Jaskier has considered swiping one of Geralt’s few precious belongings to force him to return, but he’s not that far gone, not yet. Also, he’d probably get caught. 

So he’s here, drinking himself half to death, and absolutely not thinking about what it was like to stare down death in the face, and death’s hideous cousin, Yennefer. Even now, his throat feels out of sorts sometimes, like he’s swallowed something that just won’t go down all the way. But he can speak, and sing, and the threat of silence continues to stay far out of reach. Tonight, the hum of the crowd fills that aching, terrible need, but not enough. 

He thinks maybe he’s walking a fine line, on his third drink, because the more he thinks about dying, the more he thinks about what happened after he woke up, unexpectedly and impossibly healed. Watching Geralt throw himself into a lionness’s den, and then catching him frantically fucking her in the front room. That was his victory fuck, god damn it. If anyone deserved to celebrate right now, it sure as hell wasn’t the psychotic mage who was trying to let a djinn possess her. 

He did have a victory fuck, thank you very much, a woman in Rinde he’d been flirting with on and off since the Countess had unceremoniously kicked him out. It was a bit disappointing, really, because she didn’t know what they were celebrating and it was too complicated and too raw to explain. But she was enthusiastic, and she didn’t bark at him or try to deny that she enjoyed his company, so he considered it a win. 

He’s not stupid, he decides on his fifth drink. He knows that Geralt cursed him, however much by accident, and he knows he’ll as likely get an apology as he’ll grow a third arm to better play his lute. He’s not even mad at Geralt, and he absolutely is not jealous of Yennefer. It’s not as if he’s Geralt’s boyfriend, heaven forbid. Settling down has never been something Jaskier has looked upon fondly, and he can only imagine the work it would take to mold Geralt into something even resembling a good partner. 

Okay. He’s mad at Geralt, and he’s a little jealous of Yennefer, he admits to himself at the bottom of his drink. And after six solid years of mutually enjoyable and incredibly athletic fucking, Jaskier thinks at the very least Geralt should have acted a little more happy to see him when he survived. And then let Jaskier fuck him, because he deserved a reward after all the shit he’d just been through. 

“You’ve got a little, something,” a woman says from across the table, a woman who definitely wasn’t there a moment ago. She gestures at her own collar. “Is your shirt thirsty, too?” Jaskier squints at her, and he must be having a nightmare, or something in his drink is making him hallucinate, because it’s Yennefer. 

“You’re perfectly conscious,” she says, probably actually reading his mind, and waves her hand over his glass. It fills completely, and he finds himself hating her just a little less. Then he drinks it, and he decides that maybe she’s not completely terrible, because what he’s drinking now puts the house red to shame. Yennefer grins and offers her own glass in a toast. He gives in, pleasantly surprised when she dedicates it to his survival. He can’t even be mad that she is still definitely reading his mind. 

“As much as I love surprise visits from women as mad as a bag of cats, thanks for the wine by the way, is there any particular reason you’ve decided to show up tonight?” he asks, taking another long drink. It really is good. 

Yennefer studies him for a moment. “You really are quite fragile,” she says, sounding far away. “I remember when I was that fragile. More fragile, really, and all too aware of how easily I could break.” She sighs, shaking herself out of a memory.

Jaskier can’t quite find it in himself for sympathy. “Ah, so you’re just here to what, reminisce? Hold it over my head?” He grimaces. “Oh no. Don’t tell me I owe you something.”

She smirks. “Nothing of the sort. As much as it pains me to admit, your debt was paid in full by the witcher before I even laid a finger on you. It’s not your fault he meddled in things he shouldn’t have. The lay was quite worth it, even so, but I’m sure you’re well aware of that.” 

Definitely there to hold it over him, he decides, but he lets her fill his glass again. 

“Do you know how he talks about you when you’re asleep?” she asks, which is absurd, because he doesn’t know fuck all when he’s asleep. “Reverently, almost. He knows you can break, too.”

Jaskier frowns. He’s sure it’s the alcohol making his vision blur and sweat gather on his forehead. Not the idea that Geralt might actually feel something towards him other than “reluctant attraction.” Of course he hasn’t taken any of Geralt’s denials of his friendship to heart, but he had assumed the feelings were a little more one sided in his own direction. He wasn’t even sure sometimes it wasn’t a pity fuck, until he remembered the first time they met, when Geralt had jerked him off on the side of the road like his life depended on it, and then bought them a room in an inn just to fuck him some more. 

Oh, and Yennefer really is reading his mind, because her eyes have gone a little unfocused and wide as he remembers the first time Geralt filled him to the throat with his cock. Her fingers tense on the edge of the table. “He really does,” but she stops herself and sits up abruptly, and then takes a long drink from the cup that wasn't there moments before. Jaskier has a feeling he really does not want to know what she might have said, another reminder that he and Yennefer both have known what it was like to bear the brunt of Geralt’s single-minded focus. 

Jaskier couldn’t imagine a better way to die than at the mercy of that focus. 

The next few hours pass, and he gets drunker, and so does she, and they trade gossip about Geralt like fishwives, suddenly conspiratorial. Yes, it’s a constant battle to coax him into the bath, and then out of it, like a child. No, he definitely does not take care of himself as well as he takes care of his horse, or godsdamnit, his armor. And yes, waking up to Geralt’s rapidly cooling side of the bed is probably the worst habit he refuses to break. Pretty soon, the table is sticky with wine, sloshed over from the numerous toasts they make, each one louder and more absurd. To Geralt’s self-destructive tendencies, to Geralt’s inability to string more than two sentences together, to Geralt’s hatefully, coin-bouncingly perfect arse. To Geralt’s magnificent cock, the one thing he’s unashamedly confident in that has nothing to do with beheading monsters.

They confess to each other, in stage whispers, that maybe they really like each other after all.

At some point, they must get chased out by the innkeeper, because Jaskier finds himself in his room, alone, struggling to get out of his boots while the room tilts. He hasn’t felt this drunk in some time, but it’s worth it, definitely worth it, he decides, laughing to himself when he falls into the bed. The next thing he knows, the room is pitch black and he’s tangled himself in the sheets. It takes him a minute to realize that he’s been woken by Geralt letting himself in, probably able to see perfectly in the dark. Jaskier is still pleasantly floating, and when Geralt climbs into bed, Jaskier climbs into his lap and helps himself to that victory fuck. 

In the morning, Jaskier wakes and expects a raging headache that never comes. The night before feels like a dream, and if it wasn’t for Geralt running a rag over his armor, Jaskier wouldn’t be certain he’d even come back from the hunt yet. If it wasn’t for the pleasant soreness in his lower back, he wouldn’t be sure they’d fucked, either. Yennefer is just there on the edges of his memory, although he can’t manage to remember what they’d talked about. Then Geralt is bullying him out of bed and back onto the road, and he goes, because the risk is still more than worth it. 

***

At first, Jaskier doesn’t notice anything different. Spring is creeping into summer, the weather is warming up and he feels energetic and wide awake, as if nearly a decade on and off the road has finally started to agree with him. Keeping up with Geralt, even when he rides Roach, doesn’t leave the same lingering ache in his calves anymore. Keeping up with Geralt’s infinite stamina in bed gets easier, too, and he feels a bit like a teenager, getting it up more than once in a few hours, maybe twice. He chalks it up to his new lease on life, and enjoys watching Geralt struggle to complain for once about his human short-comings. 

Then there’s a griffin, not even a contract, digging one set of talons into Jaskier’s shoulder before Geralt is there with a sword to relieve the creature of it’s leg, and then it’s head. Jaskier had stayed awake right up until Geralt had shoved a thick piece of leather in his mouth and started ripping the talons out, all three at once, and then everything is muddy and black. He gets little bits of clarity; the bright agony of alcohol poured into his mangled shoulder, the bite of a needle in and out of the skin, the feel of Geralt’s arm around his waist to keep him steady on Roach’s back. He wonders, wildly, if Valdo Marx will throw a party when he discovers that Jaskier’s gotten himself killed first. 

When he wakes up in the healer’s tent, there’s a dull ache in his shoulder but his head is clear. He doubts this is the afterlife, but he also doubts how he could have possibly survived, despite Geralt’s best efforts. Maybe if he was a witcher, but he isn’t, and he’s certain the blood loss alone should have done him in. 

Geralt is sitting by the bed in a chair much too small for him, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. He’s clearly uncomfortable. “You’ll scar,” he says by way of a greeting. 

“Please say my face is intact.” Jaskier feels his face instinctively with his one free hand, the other bound in a cloth sling. Almost every part of his body feels disturbingly normal, if not exhausted. He doesn’t even think he’s running a fever. 

Geralt shrugs. “Unfortunately, yes.” The barest hint of a smirk teases at the corner of his lips. Then his face falls back into careful neutrality. “It’s not safe for you to travel with me.” It’s absurd, because it’s true, but Jaskier is still alive all the same. 

“I think you’ll find it’s too late for that sort of thing.” All things considered, Jaskier feels almost invincible, and the pain from his wound barely registers. 

“Perhaps,” Geralt agrees, and wraps his enormous hand over Jaskier’s bound one with surprising gentleness. He squeezes once, like he’s sealing some unspoken contract, and then lets go, and calls for the healer. 

*** 

Jaskier doesn’t know how to test the limits of his sudden hardiness, but it doesn’t really matter because he finds Yennefer across from him one night all the same. Geralt is away again, hunting whatever, and although Jaskier isn’t performing, he’s a far cry from the type of maudlin he’d been the last time he saw her. 

She fills his glass immediately, with something amber, stronger than the wine she’d produced before. She bids him to drink it, and he’s mid-sip when she says, “I may have made a mistake.” 

He freezes, looking at her over the top of his mug. He lowers it carefully. “Is this poison?” he asks pleasantly. 

“What? No, not that,” she rolls her eyes. “The last time we spoke. I couldn’t bear the thought of Geralt dragging your half-dead corpse to me again, so I did a little spell, something to keep you out of danger.”

“Oh.” Jaskier thinks about it. “How’s that a mistake?” 

Yennefer twists her face in regret. “You’re a bit immortal now, sort of.” 

“Oh,” Jaskier says again, and asks her to fill his drink twice more before continuing. He doesn’t feel nearly as drunk as he should, he realizes, and it’s not just the sobering realization of Yennefer’s words. 

It’s not very complicated to understand, that she’s tied his life to Geralt’s, and she quotes, “Until the moment he dies, and not a moment longer.” Which could be tomorrow, or it could be in a hundred years. Either way, Jaskier is, for the foreseeable future, along for the ride. But she’s not finished.

“The other thing,” she says, fairly drunk herself, “is that it only works for true love.”

Silence stretches between them. 

“Don’t get excited,” she says dryly. “It’s just a phrase. It doesn’t mean it’s romantic, but,” she licks her lips, “he has to love you. And you have to love him, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Jaskier echoes weekly, standing up suddenly. “Thank you,” he adds, somewhat hysterically, and escapes to the safety of his rented room. Thank Melitele, she does not follow. Then he has a good panic attack, and then he decides, it’s just a phrase. It doesn’t mean it’s romantic.

***

Jaskier doesn’t tell Geralt about the spell, because if he tells him, they’ll both have to admit that it’s real. Geralt will get that pinched look on his face when he hears the word “love”, and Jaskier will literally fall over himself to explain, and somehow Geralt will blame him and not Yennefer, never Yennefer. 

The truth is, she’s saved Jaskier’s life, and then some, and she’s given him a priceless gift he’s not even sure he wants, although he’s sure as fuck not going to try and give it back. All the same, he can’t help but feel bitterness seep into his veins every time she appears out of nowhere and Geralt’s eyes go soft and sideways with love. 

Then Jaskier sees Geralt let Borch go, and he realizes, yes, actually, he is very much in love with him, and he feels sick with the realization as so very many things start to make sense. 

He knows better, that when it comes to Geralt, you must speak plainly if you expect to be heard. But for once Jaskier’s silver tongue feels like iron in his mouth, twisted by the abject misery he sees in Geralt’s eyes. He tries to tempt him with the coast, or just away, away from this mess before them and dragons and magic. But Geralt is stubborn and single-minded and Jaskier tries not to take it straight to his heart when he disappears into Yennefer’s tent.

Jaskier resolves to make Geralt understand, replaying their last conversation in his mind and trying to imagine what will happen if he just lays the entire truth bare in front of him. He spends so much time practicing what he’ll say that he oversleeps, and then it’s too late and Geralt is like a lit torch trying to set fire to a pile of dead leaves. Geralt lays all of his misery at Jaskier’s feet and Jaskier curses Yennefer, and curses Geralt, and curses the lonely eternity they’ve forced him into.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1 is set over several years, while Chapter 2 happens all over one evening.

Twenty years into his career, Jaskier is fairly confident in his ability to travel unscathed from one town to the next. He’s managed to keep Filavandrel’s lute in mint condition, although that’s probably magic, and he’s been able to keep himself in mint condition as well, which is definitely magic. When the war that’s been simmering for years suddenly comes to a head, he finds it all too easy to continue to move from inn to inn and town to town, filling the new-found void for meaningless entertainment. If it means he has to retire some of his more somber ballads for a time, then so be it. The coin is well worth the sacrifice.

Then he hears that Cintra’s fallen, and he can’t help but think of Geralt, which isn’t terribly surprising. There isn’t much these days that doesn’t conjure up the witcher, unbidden to his thoughts. But the fall of Cintra means something has happened to Cirilla, whether good or ill, and that something more likely than not extends to Geralt as well. 

Some cheer over Calanthe’s demise while yet others whisper about refugee camps cropping up like wildflowers, but no one seems to have any news of Cintra’s heir, or any recent sightings of the White Wolf. Jaskier drinks it all in like a starving man, knowing for certain only that Geralt lives still. Against his better judgment he moves towards Sodden, one night at a time, catching snippets of gossip that amount to nothing.

Then one night, he sees a blue cape in a familiar color, he knows the face partially obscured underneath the hood, too. She’s doing a good enough job keeping herself hidden, but Jaskier would recognize that white-blond hue anywhere, struck once again by how devastatingly she resembles her mother. Especially now that she’s half grown, baby fat giving way to sharp lines. Even in the dark he can see she’s falling asleep over half-eaten dinner. Jaskier can scarcely believe she’s managed to keep herself alive and out of Nilfgard’s hands. 

He waits until he’s in between sets and excuses himself from the evening’s admirers, slipping into the booth across from her. For once he hopes that no one is paying him any attention. 

When she sees him, her shock almost immediately melts into relief. “Jaskier!” she claps her hands together, and then remembers herself, coloring and looking cautiously around. No one notices, thankfully. “My name is Fiona,” she says wearily. 

Jaskier takes one of her hands between both of his and says, “As it always has been,” and leans in close, humming a few bars of the song he’d gifted her the last time he’d visited her court. The last time he will ever visit her court, he realizes, as tears well into her eyes. In that moment, he decides his plan, and that plan is to get this girl to Geralt no matter the cost to himself. 

The uselessness of the plan becomes apparent quickly, when he looks up to see Geralt standing a few feet away, looking for all the world like a child caught stealing dessert. He recovers after a moment, although he won’t meet Jaskier’s eyes, and stalks towards the table. “Eat,” he says simply, to Ciri, and barely gives Jaskier a chance to make room before he’s sitting next to him. “We’ll have a room here tonight, and in the morning we’ll continue North.” 

Before Jaskier can say anything, Ciri leans in towards him. “He won’t tell me what happened,” she mock-whispers, “But I think he’s sorry. He pays extra when anyone has news of you.”

Jaskier flushes, not sure how to handle any of this new information. Geralt is nearly frozen beside him, the barest hint of a pained expression on his face. Ciri looks between them expectantly, and Jaskier has the absurd feeling he’s expected to make nice with Geralt now. Maybe give him a hug. 

It’s the easiest thing in the world if it will put a smile on Ciri’s face. “Apology accepted,” he says firmly, patting Geralt gently on the shoulder. “It’s all water under the bridge.” Geralt’s face only grows more pinched, and he rubs between his eyes as if he has a headache. “Right, well,” Jaskier slips out of the other end of the booth, “Great to see you both, good talk, until next time.” He squeezes Ciri’s hand as genuinely as he can and walks away.

Geralt grabs his wrist before he can go very far and tugs him backwards, but carefully. Ciri gasps softly, her eyes wide and a hand covering her mouth in surprise. Silence stretches between them for a moment before Jaskier gives in and turns around. He can read the expression on Geralt’s face plain as day; contrite, and resigned. “Our room is...next to yours.” 

Jaskier twists his wrist away, but not harshly. “Okay,” he says, and sits back down. 

Ciri claps again, this time more quietly. Then folds her arms. “Now you have to kiss,” she declares as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

Jaskier feels himself blush hot and sudden, bracing himself for Geralt’s sarcastic remark. Instead, he feels the gentle press of dry lips against the corner of his mouth. Ciri is positively beaming.

***

Jaskier has never been sure if he believes in destiny. He sings of it often enough, as a tool to keep wayward lovers from parting for too long or to guide the brave knight’s sword through the neck of some terrible beast. Despite feeling first hand the consequences of trying to deny fate's path, or perhaps because of it, he still isn’t certain destiny isn’t just what happens when powerful people crossed paths again and again. 

Yet Ciri is so obviously Geralt’s, even with no blood between them, that Jaskier thinks he’s starting to believe. They can’t have been together very long, and yet she interprets his hums and nods with ease as she and Jaskier talk quietly. He’s not terribly surprised when she starts asking him benign questions about what he’s been up to, as if the names of the towns he’s been performing in lately are of the utmost importance. What does surprise him is that Geralt follows along, like he’s interested in knowing how Jaskier passed their time apart. He even seems concerned, not mocking, when Jaskier recalls nearly getting overcome by a pack of wolves one night on the road. Even when Jaskier admits they may have been just one wolf he didn’t even get a good look at, unsettling all the same. 

Ciri trusts Geralt implicitly, as the night wears on and she grows sleepier. Her eyes are closing when Geralt guides her towards the steps, and she mumbles as she’s led away. “‘S Jaskier coming?” 

Geralt pauses, turning his head back towards Jaskier. He’s silent, but he looks disappointed already. Like he expects Jaskier to say no. 

It doesn’t feel like destiny, when Jaskier realizes he has no choice but to follow them upstairs. Nothing but Geralt, again, asking him to follow. 

***

They pause in front of the room Geralt has rented. Jaskier’s is the next one over. “I’ll just,” he says at the same time Geralt says, “You should-”. The both fall silent.

“Ugh!” Ciri perks up suddenly. “I want Jaskier to sing me to sleep,” she announces, regality slipping back flawlessly into her tone. She takes Geralt and Jaskier’s hands into hers and drags them into the room behind her. 

Jaskier is powerless to do anything but follow her lead, and then sing to her as requested. He plays his lute feather-light, and his voice trails off softer and softer as she drifts to sleep. When he’s sure she’s asleep, he stands up and rests the lute gently by his chair, pausing only to draw a blanket up higher over Ciri's shoulder. 

He hasn’t forgotten Geralt, standing by the doorway the whole time, watching him. At some point he’d closed his eyes, leaning against the wall with his knees just slightly bent, his arms crossed. He must be so tired, too, Jaskier realizes, and he finds himself walking towards him, close enough that he can brush a stray hair from his face. Geralt hums, allowing the touch, tilting towards it. His eyes flutter open. It’s the easiest thing in the world then, to cup Geralt’s face and kiss him, sighing as Geralt’s arm wraps around his back and drags him flush against his chest. Geralt deepens the kiss just a moment, and then kisses him twice more, gently. “I can hear her from your room,” he murmurs. 

It only takes them seconds to get to Jaskier’s room but as soon as the door is locked, Geralt is on Jaskier with none of the restraint he’d shown moments before. Now he’s kissing a path down Jaskier’s neck, sucking a bite in the dip of his unbuttoned doublet, grasping him bruise-tight. “I’m not going anywhere,” Jaskier gasps.

Geralt’s responding moan is almost broken, and he sinks lighting-fast to his knees, dragging Jaskier’s trousers with him. The movement alone is enough that Jaskier feels himself harden immediately, even more when Geralt sucks his entire length into the wet heat of his mouth. He holds Jaskier against the door with one hand, and reaches the other up towards Jaskier’s lips. Jaskier greedily takes his thick fingers into his mouth and sucks in time with Geralt's movements. 

When Geralt slips a finger inside of him, Jaskier cries out suddenly, and they both freeze at the sound. Geralt pulls off Jaskier and leans his head towards the door. Jaskier doesn’t gasp again at the loss, but it’s a close thing. “Did we wake her?” he whispers. 

“No, you did not,” Geralt says pointedly, and moves his hand from where it’s been holding Jaskier against the back of the door and covers his mouth instead. At the same moment, his finger slides back home inside of Jaskier. As he begins to move, Jaskier finds that he doesn’t much mind being silenced like this, each moan caught between his mouth and Geralt’s skin. 

It’s not very long ago that the very thought of being forced to keep quiet would have Jaskier squirming out of Geralt’s grip. But he trusts Geralt, in this at least, to keep Jaskier poised right over the edge of his limits. He’ll still beg for more. And Jaskier must beg now with breaths caught in his throat, with the desperate thrust of his hips every time Geralt brushes just past his prostate. Geralt doesn’t seem to be in any rush to move past his first finger, while his tongue dances around the underside of Jaskier’s cock. His mouth moves as deftly as his hand does with a sword.

Jaskier is used to Geralt’s hunger, used to checking under the bed for his doublet’s buttons, used to losing many a chemise to Geralt’s rough hands. He has no precedent for what it feels like to come apart under Geralt’s careful attention, and he has nowhere to go but along with it. 

He comes when he realizes Geralt is watching him, has been this whole time, only allowing his eyes to flutter shut as he swallows Jaskier’s spend. 

Then he lets Jaskier go, pausing to wipe his hand against Jaskier’s pants. Jaskier rolls his eyes and whispers as sternly as he can manage, “I’m still mad at you.” He’s somewhat contradicted by the way he’s still leaning against the door, one hand resting on Geralt’s shoulder for balance. 

Geralt simply lifts him up, bridal style, his pants still embarrassingly around his ankles, and drops him on the bed. 

Jaskier knows better now than to say anything, and lets Geralt strip him the rest of the way. No buttons go flying into corners. No chemises are torn. He removes his own clothes as an afterthought, when Jaskier tugs on his sleeve with an exaggerated pout. It feels almost like a game now, this silence between them, although Jaskier would never try to beat Geralt when the odds are so clearly suited to his favor. 

Geralt naked is just as magnificent as Jaskier remembered. There’s new scars now, one particularly raised angry-looking on his thigh, even in the pale light. He permits Jaskier to trace the outline of each new mark carefully with his fingers. Geralt does not talk about where they come from, and Jaskier does not ask, but he catalogues each one with the reverence it deserves.

Now when Geralt raises a hand towards his mouth, Jaskier tips his chin up eagerly in reply. There’s the sound of a jar of oil opening, filling the room with a light honeysuckle scent as Geralt dips his fingers in for a generous amount. He slips two fingers inside Jaskier where he’d only had one before; Jaskier welcomes the feeling of fullness he hasn’t indulged in some time. His chest heaves from it, short breaths coming from his nose, and he realizes suddenly that he is still upset with him, still furious. The haze of seeing Geralt again, of the irresistible urge to kiss him is dying down and he can’t even complain about Greralt’s pace like this. Can only fuck himself down on Geralt’s fingers. He’s hard, and if Geralt notices anything strange about that, he doesn’t comment. Bastard’s probably proud of himself. 

When Geralt decides Jaskier is open and ready, that’s when he uncovers his mouth. Jaskier has the sheets wrapped around his hands, squeezing hard at the loss, and at the sudden emptiness inside of him. He can feel his asshole flutter in disappointment, and he can feel himself blush even as Geralt leans down to kiss him. 

“Okay?” Geralt asks, rubbing his cockhead just barely against Jaskier’s hole. Jaskier only nods, not trusting himself to speak. Geralt doesn’t give him much of a chance, catching Jaskier’s lower lip with the barest hint of teeth. He pushes in so slowly, swallowing each moan that escapes Jaskier’s mouth with his own, responding in kind. He hooks Jaskier’s legs around his waist, and each impossible, languid thrust goes in deeper and deeper. Until Jaskier thinks he would spend the rest of his life like this, with his cock jerking against Geralt’s abs and Geralt kissing him through it all. 

Of course he can’t hold out that long, even at this pace, and gives in to the starlights behind his eyes. Geralt’s hand covers his mouth again, trapping his cries so they have nowhere to go but into his veins, mingling with the blood rushing in his ears. And when Geralt comes, he is somehow silent too, but his hand is in Jaskier’s now, and his touch is deafening. 

***  
The room is dark, and still so, so quiet. Jaskier can barely hear Geralt breathing beside him, imagining the other man has started to fall asleep. Jaskier has seen it happen enough times. But after a moment, Geralt gets out of bed. Jaskier can’t quite make out what he’s doing, although his eyes have adjusted some, but he can hear the splashing of water and then, Geralt is back, cleaning Jaskier with a surprising gentleness. Jaskier shudders slightly as he feels the cloth pass over his still-sensitive skin. Geralt, who is likely to fall asleep in the wet spot and also hog practically the whole bed overnight. 

“Being with Ciri has changed a lot, hasn’t it,” Jaskier asks, expecting the hum he receives as his only reply.

Then Geralt lights a candle, and he sits on the edge of the bed next to Jaskier, and nudges him to sit up. Jaskier obliges, stifling the urge to cover himself with a blanket. Geralt is still nude as well, leaning his elbows on his knees and looking straight ahead. Jaskier can’t help the way his eyes rake over Geralt’s chest in the new light, over his comically large biceps. Very little has changed, and although it’s only been about a year, Jaskier feels like they could go on from this moment as if nothing had ever soured between them. Maybe they should.

Then Geralt says, “We shouldn’t have had sex,” and Jaskier gets out of bed fast as lighting, twisting away before Geralt, predictable, can try and grab his wrist to stop him. 

“Oh this was delightful,” Jaskier rambles, trying to ignore the gooseflesh breaking out over his bare arms as he hastily tries to pick out his clothes from the mess on the floor. “Really, just what I was hoping for I ever darkened your doorstep again, truly.” The bitterness comes second nature to him now. 

Geraly’s mouth moves several times, aborted attempts at speech, before he’s growling loudly and hitting his fist on the edge of the bed. The frame creaks dangerously. Then he freezes, looking guiltily in the direction of Ciri’s room. “Fuck,” he mutters, before getting up and shrugging on his trousers. “Don’t go anywhere,” he commands, and then softens. “Please. Don’t go anywhere.” 

The plea is enough that Jaskier sits down in front of the desk silently. In the few moments Geralt is gone, Jaskier dresses, and wonders if he could possibly get another room at this hour. Then remembers, belatedly, this is his room for the night. 

When Geralt gets back, he visibly relaxes when he can see Jaskier hasn’t moved. “This is my room,” Jaskier reminds him, minding his volume despite his irritation. 

Geralt nods and sits on the bed again, and this time, instead of staring at the wall, he looks in the general direction of Jaskier’s face. He does not meet his eyes. “I fucked up,” he says finally, just as Jaskier really starts to think that they’ll sit like this the whole night. 

“By fucking me,” Jaskier supplies when Geralt doesn’t continue.

“No,” Geralt visibly stops himself from striking the bed again, grimacing. “That’s not what I meant.” He scrubs his hand over his face and then looks at Jaskier. “I’m sorry.” 

Jaskier sighs. “You’ll have to be more specific.” Somehow, he doesn’t enjoy the way Geralt’s face twists up in regret. 

“I’ve never treated you how...how you deserve,” he says haltingly. “Even tonight. When I saw you, with Ciri. I knew she was safe, with you.” He shakes his head. “Even thought she’d be better off with you instead of me.”

Jaskier laughs unexpectedly. “Me! I can’t raise a child.” 

Geralt shrugs. “You’d make her feel safe. I think I just scare her.” 

Jaskier laughs again, because he can’t believe Geralt’s fears. “Scare her? No.” He thinks back to the way she followed Geralt’s lead almost instinctually. “She trusts you. Same thing as making her feel safe, really.” 

Geralt hums again, in a way that means he doesn’t quite believe Jaskier but he won’t argue with him. Then he says, again. “I’m sorry.”

Jaskier considers checking himself for a third arm, and maybe a fourth, at that. “Well. Don’t do it again.” He’s not sure what he means. He thinks he means, “Blame me for all your life’s failures and then let me walk down a mountain with a broken heart,” or, “Act like I’m a terrible burden when I’m responsible for keeping you fed and watered on a regular basis,” but he’s absolutely certain he means, “Keep me from where I belong, by your side.” He’ll admit that later, in a song.

“I forgive you,” he finds himself saying, walking across the short distance between them before sitting back by Geralt’s side. “I need to tell you something,” he says, with his hands crossed in his lap and his heart in his throat. 

Geralt covers Jaskier’s joined hands with one of his own. “I know.”

Jaskier looks at him accusingly. “How could you possibly know what I’m about to tell you.”

“Yennefer,” Geralt says, almost wearily, and Jaskier wants terribly to kick her in the shins. It’s a familiar empty wish. “And,” he smiles wryly, “Your skin’s as smooth as Ciri’s, and she’s fourteen and a princess.” 

“I have good genes!” Jaskier protests, “I’ll have you know I’m a viscount-”

“I know that too,” Geralt cuts him off. Then he grows serious. “I don’t understand it, but it’s your choice. That isn’t my business.”

“Like hell it isn’t,” Jaskier says with conviction. “Either I’m your business, or you can sleep on the floor and I’ll see you in another twelve to fourteen months.” 

Geralt cups the side of Jaskier’s face, running his thumb over his jawline. “Okay,” he agrees, and kisses him, soft and sweet.

Jaskier allows it for a second, surprised. Then he pushes him away with a hand on his chest. “Okay what?” 

“You're my business,” he says, and then, “And you would sleep on the floor, not me.”

“Do you want to find out?” Jaskier can’t help but laugh despite himself when Geralt kisses him again. 

They both sleep on the bed, comfortably, and Geralt lets Jaskier wrap around him from behind, and even though their hearts are out of sync, their breath becomes steady and even.

**Author's Note:**

> please visit me to yell into the void on [twitter](https://twitter.com/tentaclebowtie)


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